You Throw Like a Girl
by RaindropsOnDeadRoses
Summary: Instagram one-shot from my wincest page, @codependencest. Dean's been gone for five years, but Sam still can't stop putting his presents under the tree.


"It's been, uh..." Sam takes another long pull from his beer. Sets it back down on the table. "It's been almost five years and I still... There are presents. For you. Under the tree. Every year, De, I put 'em under there, and when Christmas is over I put 'em back in the closet. Just keep doin' it all over again. Can't make myself stop. Almost like I'm just waitin' for you to come back in an'... Anyway, one's, uh... One's a mix-tape. ACDC, Metallica, Zeppelin, obviously. Few more, too, just can't think right now. One's a bottle'a whiskey imported from Ireland. Thought you'd appreciate the authenticity. And, the, uh... The last one... The last one's the amulet. After you... When you threw it away, I couldn't just leave it there. Felt like... I—I dunno. Anyway, I picked it up. I know it never really worked, but I thought you might want it back someday and I just..." He stops, dropping his head into his hands, and lets the tears that have been fighting to fall for days slip from between his closed eyelids. They crash to the floor like a silent tsunami, leaving temporary dark spots on the unpolished wood, mirroring the ones eating away at him inside. "I miss you so much, baby," he chokes out, lifting his bottle into the air as a solemn, unanswered toast. "Merry Christmas."

"Damn right, I want my amulet back. Which box is it in?"

Sam freezes. Stops breathing. Stops moving, all except for his trembling hand, which loses purchase on his beer bottle and sends it to the ground with a smash, scattering dark chocolate glass and amber liquid all along the floor around his feet.

There's a sigh behind him. A long, irritated, unmistakably fond sigh. "This is why we can't have nice things, Sam."

Jesus fucking Christ, did it _have_ to say his name? He's finished. Isn't even going to fight. Whatever is speaking to him - presumably a shifter - is going to end his life, here and now. But did it have to say his name first? In that voice? In _Dean's _voice? He still doesn't speak. But his trembling hand becomes a trembling arm, and then torso, and then his entire body is shaking so violently that he's dropping to his knees in front of the couch, glass from the bottle shredding through his jeans, through his skin, and grounding him - forcing him to feel something outside his head.

"Whoa, Sammy, hey." That fucking voice again, moving closer this time, mimicking his brother's careful tone and concern damn near perfectly.

"Please," Sam sobs, hands coming up to press against his ears like a child, rocking back and forth, digging the stinging, alcohol covered glass in deeper. "Please just kill me, please, don't make me look. Don't make me listen. I can't. I can't."

There are hands wrapping around his wrists in the next instant and he squeezes his eyes more tightly shut to be sure that he won't see the thing in front of him wearing Dean's features. He's strong, but it's apparently stronger, and his hands are brought easily - though gently - from his ears back down to his sides, where he curls them into fists, fingernails digging into the flesh of his palms. "Leave me alone!" he shouts, tears pouring with no sign of mercy from his closed eyes. He isn't being held in place. The thing - the shifter, whatever it is - isn't laying a finger on him. He could easily stand and walk away, or even so much as simply turn around so that he isn't facing it. Except that he can't make himself move. It's as though he's rooted to the spot with this bone-deep, agonizing pain that's lifting those goddamn glass shards and pinning his heart to the floor with them.

It's almost a whisper now, the voice, and that cuts through Sam and sews him back up and cuts through him again. "Okay, maybe I could've taken a, uh... a different approach to this. I didn't mean to freak ya out. 'M sorry, an' I know you're prob'ly confused all to hell, but I'll give you the lowdown, I swear, just... C'mon, you gotta get up for me, okay? You're tearin' your knees to pieces."

Sam does. Just like that, he can move again, but only _up_. Only where it (maybe it's a siren, maybe it has some kind of control over his mind) tells him to go. He still doesn't open his eyes. Just levels himself back on the edge of the couch, judging his proximity by feeling alone, careful not to touch it. His wrists are still burning hot from its fingers encircling them.

"Baby." It lowers its voice just the way that Dean would if he were trying to get Sam to calm down, and Sam's pretty sure for a second that he's going to throw up. "Can you open your eyes for me?" Its mind control must not be /that/ good, because Sam doesn't listen this time. "Please?" it begs in that same quiet, soothing tone. "How'm I supposed to prove it's me without you lookin'?"

Despite himself, Sam almost laughs. He's not sure why it's trying so damn hard to convince him that it's Dean. He's already given it permission to kill him. What more does it need?

"_Please?_" This time it sounds sad, broken, and Sam's eyes flash open because whether this is some treacherous monster or not, it _sounds_ like Dean, and he can't handle Dean sounding like that. He still doesn't look at its face. His eyes fall on its right hand - which is bearing Dean's ring. He almost growls at it before he remembers that he doesn't have any fight left.

The hand reaches down, other one raised in a show of submission, and pulls a knife from its boot. "Not gonna hurt you," it says, and, okay, _what/_ Why not?

Sam's speculation is cut short when it it turns the knife over to him and says, "Know what, actually, why don't I let you do it?"

Sam blinks, knife heavy in his hand. He doesn't understand what satisfaction the sh- wait. Wait. It's silver. It has to be silver. He's been able to tell the difference in metals by the exact sheen and the weight since he was twelve years old. So... How was a shifter holding it?

"C'mon," it says, stretching out its arm to Sam. "It's okay."

Then it clicks. It doesn't want Sam to kill himself with the knife. It wasn't Sam to cut it. Tentatively, still unsure what's going to happen considering that the thing was just holding it and its flesh didn't burn, Sam allows the blade to come into contact with its skin and break through, ruby red pearls glistening on its surface almost immediately.

It doesn't even flinch. "Alright," it says softly. "Not a shifter, see?" It pulls out a small, glass vial of water with a miniature rosary hanging down inside, then, and pops the lid. Sam still won't look at its face, but he hears it swallow, and when it lowers the vial back down, it's empty. "Or a demon. Sammy. Baby boy. Please."

Baby boy. _Baby boy._ Oh, dear fucking god, Sam can't feel his lungs. He doesn't mean to lift his head, but it happens all the same, and when it does, his lungs aren't the only things he can't feel. It's almost like he's no longer inside his body. As if he's floating just outside himself - using all of the physical sense that should be tied to fingertips and heartbeats to see more clearly, to never /stop/ seeing. He doesn't register the dusky pink shade of the full, beautiful, trembling lips before him. Nor does his gaze acknowledge the sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of the nose and the high, strong cheekbones. Because he simply can't bear to part with the eyes. Countless creatures could clone, mold, recreate, any or all other aforementioned features, but those goddamned eyes, forest green, deep with a silent sorrow, bright with tears, speaking to Sam in a way that only _they_ ever could belong, without a fucking doubt in his mind, to his brother.

Sam draws in a sputtering, uneven breath, and has to remind himself that he still has control over his arm before he can lift it to rest his hand atop the calloused, roughened one in the lap of the man before him. When he finally brings himself to speak, he can utter no more than a single syllable, but that's okay. Because for him, it's always been the entire world. "De?"

In the next instant, Sam is collapsing into Dean's arms and just allowing himself to _feel_ for the first time in what feels like forever. There are a million questions running through his mind (_How are you alive? Who brought you back? _What_ brought you back? Is everything going to be the same between us, or will it all change now?_) but he can't force a single one of them to his lips. All he can do is hold on.

"Shhh, baby boy. Shhh. It's okay. I'm here. I'm right here," Dean soothes, petting Sam's hair as his own tears slide freely down his cheeks. "I know I have a lot to explain, and like I said before, I'll give you the whole story, okay? But right now, let's just... I mean, it's Christmas. I just wanna be with you."

At that, Sam actually allows the corner of his lips to turn up into a faint smile, and he pulls back, if only far enough to meet Dean's eyes. "Gettin' kinda chick-flicky. Wouldn't wanna overstep your manly boundaries, would'ja?"

"Fuck boundaries," Dean responds with an answering smile, full-on pulling Sam into his lap. "I'll cry into a tub of Rocky Road with ya while we watch the Notebook if you want to. Anything. Anything you want. You wanna go outside and have a goddamn snowball fight, mittens and the whole nine, I'm down. You just say the word."

Sam's smile widens and he leaned forward, resting his forehead on Dean's. "Just remember that you said that. I'm holding you to it."

"Go right ahead," Dean says, nothing more than honesty and amusement in his voice. And then, finally, fucking_ finally_, he closes the two-inch distance between their mouths, just barely brushing his lips against Sam's. It isn't much, really, but in the moment it's the goddamn definition of more than enough.

Sam catches the kiss eagerly, but doesn't try to push it into anything more forceful than his brother wants it to be. Not now. Just makes it obvious to Dean (at least, he hopes it's obvious) that this is exactly what he wants. He knows that this won't be as easy as it feels right now. He knows there'll be stipulations and catches and that when something feels too good to be true, then it probably is, but none of those things are of dire importance as of yet. The only thing that could break this euphoric hold that Dean's embrace has on him would be if his brother told him that this wasn't permanent, and that would've been the very first thing that he said, were it the case. So, the rest, Sam decides, can wait. But for now... "How 'bout that snowball fight?"

"Oh, you're so on," is Dean's immediate response, accompanied by a kiss to the tip of Sam's nose. "Loser has to cook dinner. And you throw like a girl."


End file.
